


When the Party's Over

by Keith_Wilde



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol relapse, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Every chapter named after a different song, Fic named after a Billie Eilish song, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nothing good happens in Calgary, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Patrick Kane is in love with Jonathan Toews, Patrick Sharp is a good dad, Smut, So by the end it'll be like a super feelings mixtape, but not for the whole thing, but sad, gay pining, idiots to lovers, just hang in there, mild reference to suicide, no beta we die like men, smut city bitch, this has a happy ending, why do i hate calgary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keith_Wilde/pseuds/Keith_Wilde
Summary: ALCOHOLISM TRIGGERS-- graphic descriptions of relapse"Call me friend but keep me closerAnd I'll call you when the party's over"-Billie Eilish, "when the party's over"When Jonny and his girlfriend get engaged, Patrick reacts to his broken heart in the way he always has--by finding the bottom of the bottle. What he finds there, though, isn't what it's always been.Yup, it's the fic where I'm a sad gay getting sober again so Patrick Kane is too.
Relationships: Patrick Kane & Patrick Sharp, Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 40
Kudos: 160





	1. American Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. So, it's time to Get Real.
> 
> Patrick Kane says he doesn't have a drinking problem, which I respect, but as we've seen drinking has been problematic for him in the past... As it has been for me. 
> 
> As an alcoholic who recently relapsed (but is back on the wagon--11 days and counting) I've felt something of a kinship for Kaner, Kaner who's been under pressure from the time he could skate, who clearly developed this relationship with alcohol as a kind of release... I'm not saying he's perfect, far from it, but neither was I. And I didn't have to talk about it on stage in front of legions of people who looked up to me. He seems to have worked through a lot of it, not without some pretty heavy bumps in the road, which I admire. I hope he has. So this fic is kind of a way for me to work through some of my feelings about relapsing, and my relationship to alcohol, you know, all that good stuff. The fluffy stuff we come to fanfic for, yeah?
> 
> So this one is pretty heavy. It's not for everyone, it's a pretty graphic account of what blacking out can be like, Jonny doesn't even enter until Chapter 2 or 3 (still working things out!), and definitely the focus is, at least in the beginning, mostly on Patrick's relationship to drinking. For all those currently reading and who do stick it out, thank you! I love the fluffy stuff so more of that will be coming soon, too. Love this incredibly specific community, thanks for reading <3

_“It’s a drug of the heart and you can’t stop the shaking_

_Because the body wants what it is terrible at taking_

_And you can’t remember the meaning_

_But there’s no going back against this California feeling”_

_LCD Soundsystem, “American Dream”_

Patrick was drunk again.

He hadn’t been drunk in a long time--in fact, a six-month chip sat heavy in his pocket where he had placed it that morning. 

He’d been doing so _well_.

That just made it worse now--6 months, 2 weeks and 3 days he’d flushed down the toilet, and now the shame told him he had better make it fucking worth it. Part of him wanted to take a shot for every one of those days. Part of him knew that would kill him, literally. The largest part of him didn’t care. 

“Another rum,” he told the bartender, throwing down another twenty. Rum felt kind of like a soft drink, like the boys would definitely chirp him for ordering a mixed drink with rum, but whatever. He wished he was a whiskey guy, but he just wasn’t. 

Part of Patrick even hoped it would kill him. He could see the headlines in Chicago: _Patrick Kane Found Dead in Alley Outside Bar in Calgary. Calgary Kills Kane. Kane Kills Kane. Kane, 30, Drinks Self to Death After Teammate Gets Engaged. Kane Celebrates Toews’ Engagement by Choking on Own Vomit. Relationship Unclear as Kane Revealed to be Huge Homo._

Maybe not the last part. Do they go through your browsing history when you die? What if you die suspiciously? Although Patrick didn’t guess there was anything suspicious about an athlete with a well-documented drinking problem finally kicking it. Blackhawks fans would be upset. It would surely derail whatever playoff momentum they were building, for a year or two at least. He did feel bad about that (just add it to the list of things to be ashamed of.) The rest of the world, though? They’d act somber at the funerals in Chicago and Buffalo, but they’d all be relieved to finally admit what they’d been thinking all along: that none of this was a surprise. 

Minus the gay part, of course. 

Minus the gay part. God, Patrick wished he could just be himself, _minus the gay part._ He thanked the bartender for refreshing his glass. _Fuck me,_ he thought, almost choking on the antiseptic smell of the alcohol. He’d gone soft in his six months of sobriety. _Just do it, Patrick. Ten minutes from now you’ll be thankful you did._ He decided to knock it back, throwing back his head so fast that he fell backwards off his stool and hit the floor. 

“Shit,” he mumbled, wishing he’d gotten more of the rum in his mouth before he fell. The ground was sticky, and now he had to get up, and the bar was _so far._ Impossibly far up. And _ow--_ he lifted his hand to look at it, slowly taking in the red--oh. Blood, that was blood on his hand, dotted with the glitter of crushed glass. 

“I’ll pay for that,” he said to no one in particular, but his voice, his voice sounded like it had when he’d gotten his tonsils out. All those years ago as a kid in London, before he’d gotten to know Jonny, before he’d been a public asset and disgrace, before he’d embarrassed himself and lied to himself and stopped lying to himself. Remember that? Patrick sighed, remembering that. 

“Okay, bud,” a voice came from behind him, wide hands scooping up under his arms. “Time to go home.” 

“What? No, I’ll--I’ll chill. I can stay--”

“No, you can’t, Peeks.”

Even as far as he’d fallen inside himself, Patrick would know that silky smooth voice anywhere.

“Sharpy?” 

“Guardian Angel Sharpy reporting for duty,” Sharpy said, struggling under Patrick’s dead weight. “Jesus, you wanna give me a hand here? I’m retired now, y’know.” 

Patrick’s answer was to get slightly sick on himself. 

“Fucking hell, Peeks. How much did you drink? And are you _bleeding?_ ”

Patrick felt himself set down on the floor again, back against the cool metal legs of the barstool. He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore--could feel the vomit on his chin--couldn’t summon the will to fix it. He thought he could hear Sharpy asking the bartender how much he’d had--there’d been a shift change an hour ago--he wasn’t sure. Something about a hundred dollar tab. Everything felt as though it was happening at a distance very far from Patrick himself.

“Peeks? Peekaboo? How much did you have to drink, bud?”

The hands on Patrick’s face were too hot, and he groaned and tried to swat them away. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ Okay.” There was the sharp hiss of an inhale. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re _not_ gonna be on Deadspin again tomorrow, alright? And we’re not gonna throw up on Sharpy who was kind enough to track your ass down in goddamned _Calgary_ because I knew you’d be a mess tonight. Alright? And we’re not--Jesus, open your eyes, will you, Peeks? We’re not gonna fuckin’ die.” 

Patrick knew that Sharpy was talking. But was he supposed to be responding? His stomach was now roiling, which was taking up quite a bit of his brainspace, and beyond that the only thing Patrick could really concentrate on was staying connected to the Earth, because it felt like he was going to go horizontal to it at any moment. 

And then suddenly he was being thrown over a shoulder, he thought, and he felt the movement as though from far away and the chill of Calgary at night from quite close up. He heard it then--

“You’re lucky the press sent me down here to follow the game, Peeks. Where the fuck is Jonathan Toews when you need him?” 

And the fog lifted long enough for Patrick to start crying. _Jonny._

“Oh, Christ.”

Sharpy set him down on the curb and he rested his head against a cold brick wall. It would’ve felt good if he could concentrate on anything--anything besides the tidal wave of pain that hit him when he thought of Jonny, when he remembered Jonny was engaged, when he pictured himself having to stand behind him as Best Man instead of next to him as a groom. He felt so, so alone.

“I’m sorry I brought up Jonny. Would you stop crying?” 

But Patrick was so far past that--he was sobbing, heaving so hard Sharpy was afraid he was gonna throw up again, his face wet with snot and tears and blood from his hand that he was rubbing his face with. He looked scary like that, unrecognizable from the adorably cocky shithead, that _kid,_ that Sharpy played with on the ice all those years. Well, that was the one thing he could still see--just how young Patrick still looked, how young he had always been. 

After a moment frozen with fear, Sharpy pulled Patrick to his chest, shushing him, soothing him, and then he was running his hand through Pat’s curls the way--the way Jonny would. Patrick only cried harder. 

“Sharpy, Sharpy--”

“It’ll be okay, Peeks--”

“I wanna die, Sharpy. I wanna die--”

“You’re not gonna die tonight, Peeks.”

“I fucking wish I would.”

“Because of Jonny? C’mon--” Sharpy aimed for joking, but his voice was thick with worry and it didn’t quite come off. “There’s more to live for than just Tazer. You haven’t even made it to a thousand games yet.” 

“I wish I’d never played. I wish--I wish I--” his voice faltered, ragged breaths drawing in, and Sharpy thought for a minute that maybe he’s starting to calm before he realized Pat was actually passing out. “I’m just so tired, Sharpy.” 

“I know. It’s okay, Peeks,” he says, one hand holding him while the other ordered an Uber to the hospital.


	2. Iscariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonny should be out celebrating his engagement when he gets the call. Instead, what he's doing is a lot more reflective of the truth: that he's just as broken over this as Patrick is. 
> 
> It's the Jonny perspective chapter, y'all. And it doesn't get much angstier than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the response that I've gotten to the first chapter was just incredible. The amount of you guys who were so supportive and commented encouraging things really made my heart swell and reminded me why I love this community <3 so thank you so much. 
> 
> Also I was rereading the whole thing back and I was like, wow. This shit is DRAMATIC. So thanks for stickin' with it. Hope you enjoy!

_“That’s what you want but its not_

_What you’re asking for, I said_

_That’s what you’re asking but you’re gonna get_

_More than you bargained for, I said_

_That’s what you had_

_But you don’t have it anymore_

_You had it coming”_

_\--Walk the Moon, “Iscariot”_

Jonny was sitting in his Calgary hotel room--the one he no longer shared with Patrick, that he fought on the Player’s Association to not have to share with Patrick--alone on the night that Sharpy called. 

He was just sitting, staring out the window at the cold Calgary downtown below. It should’ve felt good to be back in Canada, he thought distantly. But with his girlfriend--fiance--asleep in the bed behind him, his American fiance who would become his American wife, he thought he would rather be in Chicago or Buffalo or Nashville or Jesus, even _Anaheim_ for fuck’s sake so long as he was with a different American. 

His limbs had all gone numb from disuse in the ugly, uncomfortable hotel armchair. He held an empty tumbler in his hand that still reeked of Scotch. He’d just had the one; hadn’t needed much more than that after all the post-engagement champagne. Though Jonny supposed he hadn’t had much of that, either. The last thing he needed was to lose control and run his mouth. 

So this was what it felt like to be engaged. _Cheers,_ Jonny thought, still unmoving. This is what it felt like to become the person people thought he was. To give the final inch, to let his _image_ consume the one last space of his life that had been just his. To finally tie up the last loose end. To quit struggling against the waves and just let himself sink. So this is what it felt like to finally give up on being loved by Patrick Kane. 

Snow had started swirling past the window, only noticeable because it fuzzed his static view of the city. Or were his eyes just starting to give out after the--how many hours was it? How long had he been sitting here? Fuck. He was starting to consider that he might die glued to this stupid chair when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. 

“Sharpy?” he said, answering. His mouth felt cottony and he cleared his throat. “Are you still out?”

Figures, that Sharpy would go out, probably with Patrick, and drunk dial him on a night like tonight. 

“Jonny. Get your ass out of bed. It's Kaner.” 

Jon sat up. The tone in Sharpy’s voice was _not_ one he was used to.

“What’s wrong with Kaner?”

“What the fuck do you think is wrong with Kaner? He drank probably enough to kill Big Buff, though I don’t know for sure because nobody can tell me--”

“Where are you?” 

“Some ass-backwards dive bar on the south side of Calgary. Wait--the car just got here. I’ll text you the address of the hospital.” 

“The hospital?”

“He won’t stay conscious. Peeks, baby--” the muffled sounds of Sharpy trying to get Kaner to do something, and then “just fucking get there, Jonny.”

And the line went dead. 

The silence in the room was so sudden and so still, having been cut into by Sharpy’s call and then reformed around it after. 

_It’s Kaner. He won’t stay conscious. The hospital. Just fucking get there._

Jonny’s brain tried to fit the pieces together and make them make sense. Kaner was going to the hospital. Kaner was in trouble. Kaner could die.

Kaner… could… die. 

It was too much. It was unthinkable. Absolutely not. His brain rejected it again. 

“Jonathan?” He looked up to see Lindsey, half asleep, tangled in the sheets. “Did something happen?”

***

When Jonny strode into the Emergency Room, Sharpy was sitting hunched over in a hospital waiting chair, still in his game day press suit, the bottoms of his suit pants stained with what could only be vomit. He looked up when Jonny came near and immediately stood and walked out of the hospital. 

“Fucking hell--” Jonny muttered, turning and following Sharpy out into the snow. “Sharp! Sharp, are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?” 

“What the _fuck_ is going on is that you couldn’t do your goddamn job!” 

Sharpy wheeled on him, smashing a finger in Jonny’s chest. He’d never seen Sharpy this upset about anything, let alone at him.

“You had one job, Jonathan! Make sure Patrick is okay. That’s it. And don’t act like you don’t know that you’re his keeper, you’re the one who wanted to be.” 

Jonny’s insides felt hot, shame and panic and defensiveness dripping down the inside of his chest while wild terror rose from the bottom of his stomach. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he spat.

“Getting engaged out of nowhere? Not talking to him about it at all or making sure he was okay? You _knew_ that would crush him! You _knew_ he was in love with you and you encouraged him!”

“What? What are you saying?” Jonny’s brain couldn’t catch up to what Sharpy had said. Patrick, in love with him? No. No. _He_ was the one who had been pining over Patrick for years, _he_ was the one who was heartbroken, not the other way around. Meanwhile, Sharpy was pacing, practically shaking in the 2 am snowfall, running his hands through his usually camera-ready hair. 

“And what if I hadn’t been here?” Sharpy said. “Huh? If I hadn’t been on the press team tonight? Or if I had taken my original flight back to Chicago? You know, I was supposed to be on a plane right now but I stayed and tracked him down because I knew Peeks would be a wreck tonight. If I was on that plane he’d be dead, no doubt in my mind.”

“It’s not my job to babysit Kaner,” Jonny said weakly.

“The hell it isn’t, Jonny. Or are you only interested in being connected to Kaner’s hip when there’s a cup involved?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“You wanted to be there for showtime, you be the one to clean his puke off your shoes--”

“Shut the fuck up, Sharpy.”

“Does the dynamic duo still exist if one of you is dead?”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

And then they were fighting, duking it out right there in front of the parking lot of Rockyview General Hospital in the middle of who-the-fuck-knows-where, Canada. Jonny was always a terrible fighter, even though he insisted on doing it all the time anyway, and it didn’t take long before Sharpy was on top of him, beating the shit out of him, and he was leaning into it, because fuck it, if Sharpy thought any of this was his fault, then he deserved it, and compared to everything else that was happening, it felt good. 

He was taken aback when Sharp rolled off him, and then they were both on the wet concrete, bleeding and wheezing on their backs like a couple of old men. For a minute they just stayed like that.

“Jesus, Sharpy,” Jonny chirped, the only thing he knew how to do. “Who taught you to fight like that? If you weren’t retired I’d say they should send you back down to the minors.” 

Sharpy chuckled and sat up, wincing. 

“Not so bad for on-air talent, eh? I’ve still got it.” He was silent for a moment and Jonny sat up next to him, both of them planted on the curb. “I know it wasn’t your fault, Jonny. I shouldn’t have said that. It was just… It was hard to see him like that.” 

“I can’t fucking imagine.” Really, he couldn’t. Or maybe he could, but he didn’t think he could stomach it. 

“At one point I said your name and he just started bawling. This the same kid who talks nonstop about what a terrible roommate you were, about how he can’t stand you, all this bullshit. You had to know he’s in love with you.”

“No, I didn’t.” At any other time this would have felt like the best day of his life. Now, the revelation could’ve been too little, too late. 

“How?”

“Well, I was a little busy, you know… Being in love with him.” 

Jonny didn’t even think about the fact that he was finally coming out to Sharpy. He was just so exhausted, and so scared, he didn’t have the mental energy to play games. Sharpy just looked at him and laughed.

“Really?” Jonny nodded. “Shit, I always knew you two would make a handsome pair.” 

“Well, it might be a little too little, too late. Will he be okay, Sharpy?”

“Yeah, they’re pumping his stomach now, Jonny. I think he’ll be alright.”

“But he almost wasn’t.” 

“Well, yeah. He almost wasn’t.”

“Because of me.”

“Jonny, you know I only said that because I was angry.”

“That doesn’t make it not true--” 

“Jonny--” 

And then Jonathan Toews, who had never been seen crying by anyone not-related to him in his life, was losing his mind sobbing on the shoulder of Patrick Sharp. And Patrick Sharp, who, God help him, was supposed to be on a flight home to his wife and kids by now, was drying someone’s tears for the second time in what was turning out to be a very long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading again. Next chapter should be up sooner because it's almost done! I ended up switching the order of two and three, which is why it took so long.


	3. One Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh! It's the chapter where we get into the psyche of gay isolation *finger guns* fun times, I know right
> 
> Shit just keeps gettin better

_“Even though I know_

_I don’t wanna know_

_Yeah I guess I know_

_I just hate how it sounds”_

_\-- Finger Eleven, “One Thing”_

Patrick had always thought of himself as a statistical anomaly, an aberration at best and a mistake at worst. He could remember the exact moment as a teenager that somebody had mentioned at the dinner table that yeah, LGBT folks (which wasn’t the word they had chosen, but hey, why not revise history a little) existed out there, but they made up something like 0.01% of the population. It was stated as fact, not intended to be biting, just dismissive. Just plain and simple truth. They were outliers, not enough to make up a piece of the pie that mattered, the evolutionary equivalent of people born missing a toe or something. Now look at the venn diagram of gay guys who _also_ played in the NHL, and Patrick felt like a population of one. 

He had never been naive about his relationship with Jonny. He was under no illusions that when Jonny chirped his playoff mullet or barked at him to _pass the fucking puck_ that he was harboring a deep well of secret attraction. I mean, it was unlikely enough that one of them felt this way, but both of them? Yeah, right. Patrick was a numbers guy; he and Stromer could pick apart stats for hours. But there was nothing to pick apart here. He was one-half of a one-sided love affair with his best friend, and there was no way he could spin those numbers as good. 

Maybe that’s why his relationship with Jonny played out like it did, why he felt the need to push and push and push all the time. To chirp him, to make him jealous, to make him chase him down for the puck. Maybe he enjoyed the dance, the fact that they were truly matched in so many ways, like wrestling the only other person in his weight class. Maybe it was cute to see Jonny so riled up. Maybe he just ached to produce in Jonny a reaction 1/10th of the strength of what Jonny produced in him.

Either way, it was a moot point now. 

When he thought about why he couldn’t stop loving Jonny, about a thousand things came to mind. But there was one story that he would've told someone, if he could’ve ever talked to his friends about his feelings. It was somewhere in the regular season of 2013, and his dad was on him worse than ever now that it had been a couple years since their first cup, telling him _no_ _w I know you CAN do it, you just won’t._ It was a game against somebody terrible, probably New Jersey or something, and Patrick had been inexplicably off. Embarrassingly so. Patrick was still glued to the dressing room bench, shaking, after everyone else had left.

Almost everyone, that is.

He’d been surprised by a large hand on his head and had looked up. Jonny. Looking exhausted, thoroughly wrung out, but somehow stronger for it. Of course Cap would still be here. Patrick wanted anything other than to see the look he was sure Jonny was about to give him, the look so different from the way he’d looked at him before. It would be like how his dad looked at him differently depending on how he played, affectionate only after a win. And then affectionate only after a win he’d contributed to. And then only after a win where he’d dominated. The target was always moving, and he was sure this time that he’d lost Jonny’s target for good. 

“Hey, Jonny,” Patrick had said tightly, getting up. “Don’t worry about the game. I know, it was bad. But I’m gonna do better. I’ll do better.” 

“What? Peeks--” Patrick had chafed at the nickname. It made what was about to happen all the more painful. And God, why did his name have to sound so nice coming out of Jonny’s mouth? “Peeks, you played fine out there. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” 

“Yeah, I played _fine._ ” Patrick’s voice came out shaky. “But I didn’t play like I could. I played ordinary when I should’ve been playing extraordinary, I mean, that’s what they pay me for, right? I was playing _casual--_ ”

“What?” 

“I’ll do better. I’ll _be_ better--” He was spiraling now, he knew it and he couldn’t stop. “Jonny, I promise, I’ll be better--” 

But then he was cut off when Jonny’s chest pressed to his face and his arms pressed around his back. Fuck, he was strong. 

“Peeks. Patrick, stop.” 

They stayed locked like that until Patrick had quieted. 

“Listen to my heartbeat, Peeks,” Jonny said. He did. It was strong, and steady, and slow, and deep. “Do you think that it sounds any different than it did yesterday?” 

“Jonny--” 

“Do you think it's any different than yesterday?” 

“No.” 

“No. Nothing has changed, Peeks. Nothing has changed.” 

Patrick got the implication instantly: that the way Jonny saw him was as constant as his heartbeat and would last just as long. Despite mediocre performances, despite all the stupid shit he’d done or might do in the future. _Holy fuck._ He didn’t think anyone had ever said as much to him. The fist of tension, of coiled, spiraling fear unfurled in Patrick, dislodging with it a couple tears of relief. 

Jonny cleared his throat and Patrick came back to himself. He stepped back. 

“You’re still the same player you were yesterday, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, same player. Thanks, Jonny.” 

And there it was again--Jonny giving him so much and Patrick somehow wanting more. Wanting him like that--it felt like a betrayal of Jonny’s trust. And it was so _close_ to being all Patrick wanted, just shy of being possible, it hurt all the more sharply for the proximity. He headed for the showers.

“Just don’t start calling yourself Showtime again,” Jonny called after him. 

"What else are you supposed to call it when everyone wants a front row seat?” Patrick called back, smiling even as the tears of relief threatened to turn to something more sour.

***

In about a dozen years of hard drinking, somehow Patrick had never had his stomach pumped. Until now. 

You know, he wouldn’t choose to do it again. 

Patrick had woken up a lot of places after drinking, but usually the light wasn’t so fucking _bright._ Jesus. As always when he woke up with a hangover, there was the brief moment before it sank in, where it was just a new day where anything was possible. And then there was the arrival of the hangover itself, and the shame that came with it. It was like a semi-truck whose gas pedal he’d put a brick on the night before. And now it had come to run him over. Time to pay the piper, bitch.

The realization he’d been drunk the night before was always painful, but after six months of sobriety it was so much worse. At first Patrick thought that must be why he felt _so_ awful, that maybe he’d just forgotten how much this shit sucked. And then he opened his eyes to the see himself in an empty hospital room, and he realized that no, this was going to be a fuck of a lot bigger than any hangover he’d had before. 

He didn’t really remember the lead-up to getting to the hospital--he remembered shapes of things, like someone with really bad vision seeing without their glasses, but with all his senses. There were vague outlines of places he could pinpoint--I said something here, or I did something there. Someone reacted to something. But he couldn’t color in the lines to get any more specific than that. It was almost worse than if the night had been an entirely blank slate, because some of the things he remembered were disconcerting as fuck. He knew Sharpy was there. Obviously he’d done something to his hand, _fuck,_ his perfect hockey-playing hand, because it was criss-crossed with stitches. He remembered crying. Jesus, did he remember crying. But not why. 

Oh. 

Now he remembered why.

Here’s a strange thing: nobody comforts you when you’ve almost killed yourself drinking. And maybe nobody should. Maybe that sense of isolation gets some people clean. For Patrick, it was probably the opposite, just another step in the cycle of shame about his drinking that he could only forget by drinking. But either way, he didn’t know what the right thing was. He only knew what the true thing was. Which was that it was the worst feeling he had ever experienced, and he had to sit in it alone. 

He was one-half of a one-sided love affair with his best friend. But he was one hundred percent a fuck-up.

Now he wasn’t just a population of one. He was less than zero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note: the things that Patrick says when he's spiraling, about being ordinary/extraordinary and playing casual, are real things that were said to Patrick Kane by various coaches as a child. I think people get some weird satisfaction out of having pushed him so hard because they like, "contributed" to him becoming one of the greatest of all time??? When really, you read some of this shit and you're just kind of grossed out.
> 
> But anyway, I promise this ends fluffy. I love writing fluff and I miss it! I've got a super fluffy side fic thing going with these two in the pipeline but I decided to address this first.


	4. Blood Bank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonny visits Patrick in the hospital, and they have a conversation that's long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feelings have come home to roost, babies. Thanks a million for being literally the best ever and making me wanna get up and write every day.

_ And I know it well--that secret that you know _

_ That you don’t know how to tell _

_ It fucks with your honor, and it teases your head _

_ But you know that it's good, girl _

_ ‘Cause it's running you with red… _

_ And I know it well--that secret that we know _

_ That we don’t know how to tell _

_ I’m in love with your honor, I’m in love with your cheeks _

_ What’s that noise up the stairs, baby? _

_ Is that Christmas morning creaks? _

_ \-- _ Bon Iver, "Blood Bank"

When Jonny woke up, the light in the hospital waiting room was bright, yet soft at the same time, the way only Canadian snow can reflect it. Like Christmas morning kind of snow, except all winter, which was one of the many things that he loved about Canada. 

He sat slowly, and  _ fuck-- _ sleeping in a waiting room chair was worse than sleeping on the plane. Still, though, it was so hard to be upset. His best friend was alive when he shouldn’t be. By some miracle, he might be able to see him soon. And he’d just been told that maybe, just maybe, his best friend wanted to be with him just as much as he did.

Well. He doubted if that was possible. But you know, close enough. It was enough to leave him feeling delicately hopeful, if absolutely terrified.

It was like the night before, an ocean of grief and guilt had bowled him over and left him passed out on the beach. But when he woke up today, exhausted and battered all to hell, the tide had gone out--and all he was left with was this layer of salt on his skin, the rub that told him he and Patrick didn’t have to be alone in this anymore. 

“Here.” When Jonny looked up, Sharpy was standing over him in hospital gift shop sweats and a CALGARY t-shirt. He was holding out a coffee. “You’re gonna need it, bud.” 

***

The nurse had just left with Patrick’s blood work when Jonny appeared in the doorway. He looked nervous. He looked small, or like he was trying to make himself look small, which was about as ridiculous as a Great Dane trying to pretend to be a lap dog. It would almost make Patrick laugh, if he wasn’t in shock.

“Jonny? What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here--Jesus, Peeks, you think I wouldn’t come to the hospital when you almost died?” 

“Not when you just got engaged, no.” Patrick couldn’t believe this was even a conversation. Fuck, now he really felt like a dick. He stared at his lap, the wall, anything but Jonny coming toward him. 

“Patrick--”

“Look, I’m sorry I ruined your engagement. I appreciate you comin’ out, but I’m fine, promise. Get out of here, man. You should be with Lindsey.”

“I broke it off with Lindsey.” 

“What?” Patrick looked up. 

“I broke it off,” Jonny said. He was looking at him with those fucking  _ eyes-- _ they were all wide, and more serious than he’d ever seen them. Three Stanley Cups and  _ this  _ was a whole new level of intensity. Patrick’s mouth went dry.

“Why--why’d you do that? Huh? Don’t… Not on my account.” 

Jonny just shrugged, looking down now too. His voice was quiet.

“It wasn’t really… It was all kind of for show anyway. I mean, she’s a great girl and all. But y’know… that would be part of the problem. That she’s a girl.”

Patrick heard his heart monitor rocket up in pace by about a thousand. 

“Jonny, you’re--”

“Gay, yeah.” Jonny ran his hand through his hair, giving that same look as when the media asked him a question he didn’t have an answer to. “Always have been. I mean, obviously. But uh--yeah, Brisson and I thought a girlfriend would be good for my image. Years ago, y’know. I don’t know about you, but I never thought I’d see an out NHL player in my lifetime. And it seemed better than getting all those questions about being a bachelor, huh?” 

Patrick’s brain was still struggling to keep up. Jonny was--gay?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well I thought it was pretty fuckin’ obvious, Patrick. I mean, the way I look at you, the way I talk about you, the way I touch you--” Jonny’s already ruddy cheeks were getting redder by the minute. “But you never said anything. I figured if you didn’t know then you didn’t want to know.” 

“No, I--” Patrick stuttered, “I wanted to know.” 

Jonny chuckled before swallowing, getting serious again, forcing himself to look Patrick in the eyes directly. 

“But Peeks--even if Lindsey, y’know, even if I wasn’t  _ not  _ into girls… It wouldn’t matter who she was, because she’s not you.” 

“She’s not me,” Patrick repeated, licking his dry lips, still working through his shock and awe. 

“Yeah. And I just--when I heard you were in the hospital--aw, fuck--”

And suddenly Jonny’s swiping at his eyes, and holy fuck. Jonathan Toews is the definition of stoic. Not after a single game had Patrick ever seen Jonny cry; for Chrissakes, this was the same guy who had driven his car with a concussion, who had eaten foods he was allergic to for twenty years of his life because he didn’t want anyone to know he was in pain. And here he was, crying over Patrick.

“When Sharpy called me last night, and told me you were in trouble…”

“Jonny, you don’t have to.”

“No, Patrick. I want to.” He looked Patrick in the eye, every bit intentional. “When Sharpy called, and told me you might not be okay, and when I thought that maybe, if I had just said something, if I was there with you, if I could have done something--”

“Jonny, you’re not responsible for what I did. C’mon. You’ve gotta know that.”

“But to think, when you were sitting in that bar, wanting to be with me, I was just sitting in the hotel, hating myself for wanting to be with you.” 

And then they were both crying--god, if the boys ever got wind of this, the chirping would truly never end--and Jonny had taken Patrick’s hand and was rubbing the knuckles, and it felt like something akin to a first kiss. 

Patrick swiped at his eyes and gave a weak laugh. 

“So you were really into me this whole time I was into you? Are we just the world’s biggest idiots?” 

“Well, I always knew  _ you  _ were the world’s biggest idiot,” Jonny said, laughing and trying to compose himself, and only getting further away. 

“Why do I like you?”

“Fuck if I know, bud.” He smiled. “But you have all the time in the world to tell me, now.”

“C’mere,” Patrick said, finally saying  _ fuck it,  _ finally unleashing the pressure that had almost overwhelmed him for good the night before. He put his hands on Jonny’s cheeks and pulled him close, and suddenly they were kissing. They were finally kissing, and of course Jonny had never done anything halfway so it was incredible. His lips were soft but his jaw was strong and they did it the way they’d always done everything--pushing each other, struggling for dominance, striving for passionate perfection because they knew it would end with them closer than they were before. 

“Will you just get in here?” Patrick breathed when they came up for air. Jonny climbed into the bed, carefully, settling himself around Patrick like a shell. He just held him for a minute, not forgetting how close he’d come to losing all this. Patrick still couldn’t believe he had come this close to  _ having  _ any of this.

“You never said anything,” he said.

“Because  _ you  _ are the one thing I can’t lose, Peeks. Everything else is negotiable.” He looked down at him, running a finger slowly over Patrick’s scalp, almost absently. “I couldn’t risk that.” 

“You make me sound so valuable.”

“Because you are.”

What an impossibly beautiful and scary thing, to be worth something to the person who is worth more to you than anything.

“I think I’m an alcoholic, Jonny.” It came out quiet, breathed shaky into the space between them. After a measured moment, Jonny responded.

“Listen to my heartbeat, Patrick.” He did. It was still strong, and still steady, and still slow, and still deep. “Does it sound any different than it did before?”

“You remembered that?”

“‘Course I did. I remember every time I almost told you how I felt, ya dingus.” 

“Who says the word  _ dingus _ ?” 

“Just shut up and listen. Does it sound any different?”

Patrick nestled his ear back up against Jonny’s chest and checked. 

“No.”

“No. Because nothing has changed, Patrick. Still.” 

Patrick felt his throat constrict. He didn’t feel like the same kid Jonny had come into the league with a decade ago. He didn’t feel like much of a champion, or an MVP, or even a halfway decent human being. 

“You’re still the same person you were yesterday. You choosing to fight this thing head-on, to acknowledge that this is a problem for you and to  _ do _ something about it… Just because you put a label on it doesn’t make you any different than you were before. Peeks, it just  _ confirms _ that you’re every bit the person I always thought you were. The person I fell for a decade ago. If anything, it makes you braver. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe something has changed, because I’ve never been so proud of you.”

“Not even after the cups?”

“Not even after the cups.” 

Patrick could hear the monitor confirming what he already knew, that his and Jonny’s hearts were beating in sync. They always had, though, he guessed, even when he hadn’t been able to hear the evidence. As exhausted as he was, he thought he’d never been happier. That is, until someone cut in.

“Oh, thank  _ fuck. _ ” 

They both looked up to see that Sharpy had entered the room. He had two styrofoam containers with him that smelled like biscuits and gravy.

“Have you two finally kissed and made up?” 

“I’d chuck this pillow at you,” Jonny said drily, “but I wouldn’t want you to drop my breakfast.”

“What’d you get?” Patrick said, sitting up. 

“Nuh-uh, not for you,” Sharpy said, keeping the containers out of Patrick’s reach. “You just got your stomach pumped, Lindsay Lohan.” 

“Fuck off,” Patrick said, but he was grinning. He’d deal with a lifetime of chirping to keep a friend like Sharpy after a night like last night. “You should’ve just whipped out a picture of you in a Stars jersey, I’d have hurled no problem.” 

The three of them stayed like that, Patrick and Jonny cuddling, Sharpy and Jonny eating, Sharpy and Patrick trading chirps--until the nurses told them they could go home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope everyone had a fantastic fourth of July and got to see the photos of Stromer, Brinks and our absolute, adorable favorite Adam Boqvist hanging out for the holiday with their dogs. If anyone hasn't seen it, do yourself a favor and find it on the Wrigley Strome Instagram. You're welcome.


	5. Cover Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, ya bunch of sieves. It's the smut chapter. After this much angst, the boys have earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written this much/this explicit of smut before, but it felt really important to explore their physical relationship. Plus, ya know, who doesn't love some 1988 smut? Hope my first foray turned out alright!

_ “ _ _ So go leave your boots by the bed _

_ We ain't leaving this room _

_ Till someone needs medical help _

_ Or the magnolias bloom _

_ It's cold in this house and I ain't going out to chop wood _

_ So cover me up, and know you're enough _

_ To use me for good” _

_ -Jason Isbell, “Cover Me Up” _

When they dropped Sharpy off at the airport, he grabbed Jonny’s arm and pulled him in for a hug. 

“Don’t fuck this up, Toes,” he whispered in Jonny’s ear, grinning when he pulled back. 

Jonny just smiled back in that way that said,  _ I know.  _

“Don’t be a stranger, Sharpy.” 

Jonathan drove them back to the hotel. With every minute the silence grew a little thicker, and he got a little more nervous, trying not to dart his eyes back and forth to Kaner every few seconds. 

When they got to the room and Patrick tugged him silently in, Jonny didn’t know why he’d worried. It suddenly seemed crazy to have ever worried with Patrick, as crazy as having worried if the sun would come up in the morning or if the horizon would be there to meet it at the end of the day. Yeah, maybe they’d spend the days apart, but that didn’t make it any less certain that they’d come round to consume each other in the end.

They didn’t say anything. 

The blackout curtains were still drawn from the night before, so it was dark when Patrick offered himself to Jonny, reaching up to slot their lips together. It came across like a question, but it was a question Jonny could finally answer the way he wanted to. He replied with sureness, pressing his soft lips firmly against Patrick’s, wanting to erase any hesitation but not wanting to push.  _ If you’re wondering if I want you to,  _ he seemed to say,  _ I want you to. What do you want? _ He questioned back, drawing back just slightly, coaxing Patrick to follow him, to chase him like always. And Patrick did, pulling on Jonny’s lower lip for a moment of suction that made Jonny wonder how they hadn’t devoured each other already. 

They didn’t need to see or speak. They knew exactly where to find each other in the dark. Patrick had swung his arms around Jonny’s neck so many times with the unsteadiness of the ice as an excuse, but he found he needed the stability just as much on the carpet. He’d always needed it, but now he could ask. Now he could take. He was finally free to say  _ I need you.  _ He stumbled forward toward Jonny, tightening his grip around his neck, and Jonny responded by putting his wide hands under Patrick’s knees and lifting him, hiking his legs around his waist. Patrick hummed into Jonny’s mouth, letting himself feel the weightlessness of being supported by him, being guided and led and taken care of by Jonny. Their cocks were hard against each other and  _ fuck,  _ he couldn’t help it, he wrapped his legs around him all the tighter. He knew he was clinging, was sucking at Jonny too hungrily, but there was nothing he could do. He still couldn’t believe he was allowed to do this. He needed to touch Jonny like the sun wasn’t going to come up tomorrow. 

Jonny walked them back toward the bed, turning and setting Patrick down on the mattress. He stood over him, just looking, and even with his clothes on, Patrick had never felt so naked, so seen and  _ accepted-- _ not seen and critiqued or seen and pushed or seen and altered--in his life.

Jonny knelt down by the bed and closed his eyes. He looked up at Patrick, eyes betraying his intensity as always, and Patrick nodded. Jonny started undressing Patrick then, taking his time, removing piece after piece as though he were excavating something sacred and captivating. Once his shoes and socks were off Jonny moved to undo his belt, making time to push up Patrick’s shirt and press a kiss there. Press a kiss to the front of his jeans. Press a kiss to the insides of each thigh. Patrick shuddered with each one, dropped with the intentionality only Jonathan Toews can produce. 

He pulled off Patrick’s jeans, then crawled up onto the bed to straddle him and remove both their shirts. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other shirtless, but when Jonny leaned down to press his mouth against Patrick’s neck, it was the meeting of their chests that made him gasp. Jonny was so  _ warm, _ so radiant, he was a heat that was spreading from his ear down his throat, to his collarbone, planting a kiss where he’d broken it those years ago-- _ he remembered?-- _ down his stomach and further. Patrick’s breathing hitched. Being the full focus of Jonathan Toews’ attention had always been like being held and being held responsible for your sins at the same time. But this was a new level entirely.

Jonny sat up, drawing Patrick back to reality. He was looking at Patrick’s wrist, and the pair of hospital bands still wrapped around it. His expression was, maybe for the first time in Jonny’s life, unreadable.  _ Please don’t stop touching me,  _ Patrick thought, but he needn’t have worried. Jonny lifted the wrist gently to his lips, then pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes for a long moment as he held him there. It was the same way you’d hold a love letter retrieved from a fire, something glass you’d dropped but caught at the last minute--anything you’d just narrowly avoided losing. Jonny seemed--he seemed almost on the verge of breaking.

With his other hand Patrick drew Jonny back down for a kiss. It was hungry, and vital, and with his tongue running against his teeth, unmistakably alive.  _ I’m still here, we’re still here,  _ he tried to say, wrapping his strong legs around him again to ground him in the reality.  _ I’m still here, and I want you.  _ He felt Jonny shudder as he pushed their hips together again.  _ Fuck, I’ve always wanted you so please, please don’t fail me now.  _

Jonny stood, finally removing the last of their clothes and producing some lube before coming down on top of Patrick again. He slowly pressed one finger into Patrick, then two, but it wasn’t enough for Patrick. It wasn’t long before he was whining for more, and soon Jonny had pinned both of Patrick’s wrists above his head and was pushing into him. 

It punched the breath out of him. His chest constricted as he held Jonny inside himself, drew him into his body like he was making a home for him there. He felt so complete being filled by Jonny, but he also felt so good being able to take him, to hold him. To make Jonny make the noises he was making. To withstand the force of him rocking against his prostate. He was caring and cared for, powerful and powerless to stop the desperation building in him. They were like two halves of the same person, two sides of the same coin, and he had to focus on clinging to Jonny’s back just to keep from losing himself entirely. But maybe, he thought, pressing his fingers to Jonny’s white-hot skin and coming, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, that was exactly what he’d been waiting to do all along. 


	6. Epilogue: Don't Delete The Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, and the boys are finally ready to drive off into the Chicago sunset.

_ “ _ _ I look at your picture and I smile _

_ How awful's that? I'm like a teenage girl _

_ I might as well write all over my notebook _

_ That you 'rock my world,' _

_ But you do, you really do _

_ You've turned me upside down _

_ And that's okay, I'll let it happen _

_ 'Cause I like having you around” _

_ \--Wolf Alice, “Don’t Delete the Kisses”  _

Jonny couldn’t stop smiling as he sped across the Dan Ryan. Even with Seabs and Duncs needling him from the back, asking when he and Kaner were gonna make it public, and Crow fucking with the radio station nonstop from the passenger seat, he was flying. Nope. The boys were not gonna get him down. On a day like today, everyone was a fuckin’ beauty. 

They were going to pick Patrick up from the airport. After the end of the season he’d enrolled in the Player Assistance Program full time, and his treatment was finally done. It had been hard, impossibly hard, to go to distance so soon after finally getting together. But they both knew that it would be worth it. In AA it was said that whatever Patrick put before his recovery would be the first thing he would lose--and he would go to any lengths to never lose Jonny again.

Besides, it was good for him. Really good. He was thriving, actually, reporting back to Jonny that he was “totally winning at therapy, if you could win at therapy, which you can’t, which I understand because I’m awesome at therapy.” Jonny was just glad Patrick was finally dealing with the couple decades worth of various traumas, triggers and parental issues he’d been accumulating since he could walk. And Patrick, being Patrick, had of course become close personal friends with half the guys in the program. He couldn’t send pictures or name names, but he’d tell Jonny on the phone about playing soccer and losing at poker and picking movies with guys. He’d have almost been jealous if it wasn’t such a big part of what he loved about Patrick. What could he say? His baby picked up friends everywhere.

“Crow, if you don’t pick a fucking station I swear to God--” Seabs was leaning forward in the seat now, breaking into his daydreams of Patrick. Probably a good thing, too. He didn’t need to be driving with a hard-on.

“Hey now, you gotta be careful Seabs,” Duncs was saying. “We wouldn’t want Jonny to crash another one of his fancy cars.” 

“Oh, like you don’t have a couple of expensive-ass trucks sitting in your driveway right now collecting dust,” Jonny shot back.

“It’s different when there’s kids’ toys all over the backseat. I need ‘em fancy to balance out the dad factor--”

The other three groaned.

“You can’t just play the dad card as an excuse for everything, Duncs--”

“Three out of the four people in this car have kids!”

“Gonna be four soon, right, Cap? Now that you’re the picture of domestic bliss?” Seabs’ massive hand came down to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to knock Kaner up real soon,” he said as the others groaned and gagged. It was a joke, of course, but one hand came off the wheel, reaching down to his pocket to make sure it was still there. 

Yup. The ring box was still in his pocket, right where it needed to be. 

***

Patrick was feeling good when he got off the plane. No, not good-- _ untouchably _ good. Nothing could bring him down on a day like today. Not even the complimentary mixed drinks offered in first class, which a year ago would’ve sent him spiraling, could touch his mood. He felt like he was floating as he collected his baggage. The only thing weighing him down was a collection of AA chips in his pocket--but those were more like an anchor, really. 

He thought about it a little when he strode past O’Hare’s assortment of swanky airport bars. It was almost like he could see the Patricks of past sitting at them, nursing hangovers with some hair-of-the-dog, or excitedly getting the jump on a trip to Buffalo where he would only go from drunk to drunker. No matter what the situation was, he would’ve been looking for that escape hatch from his brain, from his life. He wondered what he would’ve thought if he could tell himself what he had to look forward to. That someday he would have a life that he not only didn’t want to escape from, but that he couldn’t fucking  _ wait  _ to get back to. 

The first time he’d gotten sober, he’d envied the past self that was still able to drink. Now he felt bad for the guy. He’d felt so trapped, so ashamed. He’d had no clue how good life could get. 

Yeah, he felt pretty lucky these days. He could’ve been dead, but instead he was here.  _ Your drinking will end, Patrick,  _ his sponsor had said when he’d entered the Player Assistance Program.  _ It ends with your ass in AA or your ass in the ground, but either way, it’s ending. You can choose how, but those are your two options.  _ He’d spent years trying to find a third option, but he’d finally accepted there wasn’t one. So he’d made a choice. He was so glad he’d chosen that ending, because this beginning was so, so much better.

He went through the double doors and out to where the cars were waiting. A sunny summer afternoon in Chicago, the familiar lake breeze nearly bowled him over with greeting, better than a friendly face. Of course, he wasn’t hurting for those either. Somewhere in this confusing-ass concourse he knew his boyfriend was waiting for him. His  _ boyfriend.  _ The thought still plastered a bashful smile to his face. He was aware that he looked like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it and didn’t want to. He had a real-life boyfriend who loved him, who had seen the absolute fucking worst he could do and somehow still seemed to think he’d hung the moon. A boyfriend who had waited so patiently while Patrick sorted out his shit. Who had an incredible ass and a heart of gold and a ridiculously dorky smile and eyes that were both smoldering and chocolatey at the same time. A boyfriend who drove him up the fucking wall every day he was with him and still kept him coming back for more. 

His boyfriend was Jonathan Fucking Toews. And that really said it all. 

Finally he spotted them. Crow, Duncs, and Seabs were all there, hanging out the windows of Jonny’s car and waving at him. He could only see Jonny though, leaning up against the driver’s side with his hands in his pockets and that smile on his face. You know the one. 

Their eyes met. Patrick smiled back. And suddenly, they were the only two people in the concourse. Suddenly, they were the only two people in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to everyone who stuck it out to the end. I truly love these idiots and I'm so grateful for the opportunity to explore my own experience through theirs. I hope that I did them some justice--and that maybe I did justice to you guys, too!
> 
> A couple notes: I have no idea if this is how the Player Assistance Program works. For those who don't know, the PAP is a confidential program run by the NHL in which players can get help for mental health, substance abuse and other issues. Usually players enter in the offseason, for obvious reasons, so usually no one knows when someone enters. Most recently the Senators' Bobby Ryan entered the program publicly because he had to enter mid-season. It's uber secretive, which I totally understand, but you'd think they'd maybe at least have a website explaining what they do? Like, they don't even have a wikipedia page. Either way, I think their work is fantastic and I think there's a good chance many players we know and love have capitalized on this system before. 
> 
> Also there may be a couple more works coming in this series, if you guys would be into that!
> 
> Also to all the messages encouraging not just my work but my sobriety--thank you. I really can't express how much they've meant to me. As 30 days comes and goes, every day gets just a little bit easier again.
> 
> It's a great day to love hockey and a great day to be sober!


End file.
